


Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed

by eyesonfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Cutting, M/M, Self Harm, Selfharm!Harry, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesonfire/pseuds/eyesonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was changing around him, going so fast he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t stop to catch his breath and remind himself who he was and what he was doing here. He had nothing to hold onto except four other boys’ hands and they were just as scared and confused as he was, exhilarated, running on adrenaline and no sleep, exhausted but too hyped up to rest.</p>
<p>Or the one in which Louis finally finds Harry cutting and tries to fix him and somewhere along the way they fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: If bulimia and/or anorexia and/or cutting/self harm are sensitive or triggering issues for you, please treat this with caution. I am always here if you need to talk.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from "Superman", Five for Fighting.

Everything was harder than he thought it was going to be. He thought it was meant to get easier. _It gets better_ , isn’t that what they tell you? It’s all bullshit. Nothing changes. Everything changes. Harry’s biggest fear was losing himself. Everything was changing around him, going so fast he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t stop to catch his breath and remind himself who he was and what he was doing here. He had nothing to hold onto except four other boys’ hands and they were just as scared and confused as he was, exhilarated, running on adrenaline and no sleep, exhausted but too hyped up to rest. It was crazy, a never ending whirlwind and everything was just going too fast, too long, too blurred. He couldn’t see faces or remember names, it was an endless parade of faceless entities, _I love you_ 's _,_ and _marry me’s_ and _I want your gravy’s_ and _you’re my hero Harry’s_ all he could do was plaster on a smile and hold on to one of the boys hands as they were dragged back into the van, whirled off to another place with more bodies pressing in around him and more people wanting things, demanding things, touching him and it was all getting too much, too fast. He felt sick, he couldn’t seem to breathe and none of the other boys could see it, no one could, his fake smile hiding the kid who was screaming inside, begging to be noticed.

All he _was_ was noticed, screaming fans, running at him, throwing things, hands clutching at him, dragging him, pulling him, pushing him but they seemed to see right through him, no one looked into his eyes they just seemed to run right past as they screamed and jumped and yelled. Paul’s eyes, constantly on the move, scanning for threats and pushing people back, his large body next to Harry, rather than being reassuring was threatening, making him feel closed in, surrounded like he couldn’t run even if he needed to and he couldn’t pull in enough air and just before he passed out it was time to go, to leave, to go home and rest before doing the same thing tomorrow. Harry felt like management didn’t see them as people either, rather machines that they could program and schedule and give them times to be here and here and here and didn’t see them as Harry and Louis and Liam and Niall and Zayn, as human beings that needed a rest and time to breathe and time to catch up and time to find something to hold onto in this world that was spinning crazily beneath their feet as they felt like they were going to be thrown off.

But they didn’t dare complain because they’d been given all this and there was no guarantee it wouldn’t be take away in an instant and it made Harry feel trapped, feel dependant and he _hated_ feeling dependant on anyone. The only thing that could pull him out of this spiral, the craziness of everyday was Louis and Louis’ eyes. Eyes that reminded Harry so much of the ocean, the calm ebb and flow, the tide and the sound. It calmed him down, slowed the world from its manic kaleidoscope of colours and noise and turned it into a peaceful quiet, the colour of blue. Harry could get lost in Lou’s eyes, like the waves reached right out to pick him up and carry him home. He made no move to fight the movement, to fight the comforting arms that surrounded him when he looked into Louis’ eyes.

But then the moment would be broken, shattered and stolen and the sound would rush back to his ears and his eyes would expand to take in the others and the fans and the crowds and it was all too much again. They saw him as a pretty face, a pretty boy with a pretty voice, none of them knew him or knew what it was like and they were jealous of his life and his fame and his looks and his money and he wished he could tell them, wished he could just scream out that _it’s not easy to be me_ because it wasn’t, it was a struggle, every day and he could barely breathe. He felt like a fake, a pretender, he wasn’t what they thought he was, he was a kid playing dress up, he didn’t belong here. He thought he was going to be caught, at any moment there would be screams and jeers and he would be booed off this stage of bright lights that had been somehow handed to him on a golden platter and he couldn’t handle it. His breath would catch in his throat and he would panic until he could get a glance at Louis in again and the panic and terror would recede until he could breathe again and smile politely and bite back the screams of _I can’t_ and _it’s too much_ and he wished he could cry and fall to his knees but he had to keep his head up and smile and be shoved and pulled and tugged, had to grit his teeth and dig his nails into his palm and continue trudging along the rough path with his weary feet and four other sets of footsteps.

~

This whole thing was so much harder than he thought it would be. He was fighting each day to keep his head above the rush of people and noises and motion, kicking with his feet but barely treading water. He felt sick, foreign, a stranger in his own body. He felt like he was losing himself, that so much was changing around them that soon he wouldn’t even know who he was, soon he’d be the faceless boy band pop guy that everyone seemed to see him as. Sure, he’d still be Harry Styles but he wouldn’t even know what that meant anymore. He wasn’t sure he did even now. He wasn’t sure who Harry Styles was or what he stood for, he was just an opinion-less doll that was dressed up and primped and preened and placed into the spotlight and told to sing.

He felt like he was losing everything that made him _him_ and he would run to the bathroom and retch but his stomach was empty with all the food he hadn't eaten in two days and the bowl would fill with putrid yellow bile. He’d pause and breathe and stand calmly, wipe off his face and use the mouthwash he carried around for this reason and plaster on his dimpled smile and then he’d be back out there in the swirl of noise and music and colour. The break was brief but he’d have a few minutes to himself, a few minutes of control where it was him and no one else, where he, Harry was making the decisions and it was worth so much more, choosing not to eat and choosing to throw it up and choosing to run the boiling tap over his hands until they were red and raw than any pay check from management and any girl screaming his name.

He chose it, no one else, and he savoured it. But he wasn’t crazy or anything, he wasn’t one of those people you read about with issues and mental diseases; there was nothing wrong with him. He wasn’t one of those people with blank eyes and red marker scrawled across them, labelling them _bulimia_ or _anorexia_ or _depression._ Honestly, truly, sickly. It just allowed him to breathe, a few moments alone and calm and in control and then he could go back out and be the good little puppet and hide the panic and terror and the fear and the few minutes, the precious few minutes were a lifeline for him. Refusing the food put in front of him, throwing up everything he hadn't eaten, burning his hands raw; it was his choice and it held him down more than Louis’ eyes.

~

It wasn’t long before he picked up the razor again. He’d never put it down, not really and no one had figured why he always wore so many bracelets. But that was nothing, they were barely scratches, they didn’t matter, more habit than any actual desire to _hurt._ In this life that was so crazy and so out of control and yet so controlled it was comforting to know that no matter how much everything changed around him, no matter how much was different, his blood was the same. His blood was a solid, reassuring constant. It was always red and warm and wet. It always smelled the same, always reminded him of who he was and where he came from. He would always remember the first time, practically as a kid, sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor. Different blade, same pose.

He didn’t cry anymore. Not like then. It wasn’t punishment now. It was release. It was like breathing in after holding a really, really long note, like closing his eyes after a really, really hard day. Not intentionally, but simply going to sleep and never waking up. Floating away, drifting on a cloud. Freedom, complete and infinite.

~

He had scars. He had a lot of scars. Since he was a kid he’d been collecting them. Like badges of honour, but shameful ones that no one talked about, no one wore with pride. Like prison tattoos, like acid scars. Reminders of bad things and bad times. He had scars for reasons that seemed silly now, petty dramas exaggerated a hundred fold by puberty and hormones and everything changing, but that had seemed so huge at the time, as teenage dramas always did. It was his coping mechanism. It still was.

And then there were scars for reasons that were valid. Like the scars for being gay. Not that he was ashamed of his homosexuality: not anymore. But when he was thirteen, when any kid is thirteen, being different in any way is damaging. Kids are cruel. Merciless. When he was thirteen, realising he preferred dick terrified the shit out of him. He would cut then because he was a _freak_ , _unnatural,_ a _weirdo,_ a _fag._ He was different, everything was different, and he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just be normal, why he couldn’t just like girls, any girl. He tried, he tried so hard to change it, he tried so hard to push all thoughts of men out of his head and focus on girls but he couldn’t do it. He just ended up frustrated and angry and then he would cry, the great ball of resentment and fear and anger inside of him bursting out of him in huge snotty sobs, while he lay on the floor banging his head against the cold hard floor, hands blindly searching for something, anything that could get rid of those feelings. He had found a knife, once. One of the ones his mother used to cut the vegetables. And he picked it up and he pushed against his skin. Again and again, barely breaking blood but raising little white and red lines, beads of blood forming against the pristine white of his wrist. The ball of emotions inside him that had choked him, stopped him from breathing and talking and singing got a little bit smaller, as if it was leaking out with the blood and with the tears and again and again he pressed the knife down and then when he could breathe again he wiped the tears from his eyes and calmly stood up and took a shower washing away the blood and making the water run red.

~

No one had ever spoken about it. Surely someone had seen the scars. Surely someone had seen the blood caked around the plug of the shower. Surely someone had wondered why he wore so many bracelets all the time. But no one said a word. Harry assumed they didn’t know, they were blind to it, living in their perfect world with their innocence and their unmarred flesh. No one had ever seen him doing it. No one had a reason to think. It was never hard to sneak away. Before, no one cared, no one noticed him. Now that he was famous, everyone noticed him. Still, no one cared. The lads assumed he was going to the loo or having a shower or sneaking a wank. No one thought that happy, cheerful Harry had something to hide. It’s ironic. _Usually the ones with the biggest smile have the most to hide_ , isn’t that what they say?

~

They’d just finished another day of promotional stuff, another day of being pushed and prodded and placed where he was meant to go and herded when it was time to leave and faceless blurs in the crowd and nameless people touching him, dragging him, pulling him, burning him, hurting him. He wanted to step back, to run, to scream, to do something, say something, _anything_ but Paul was behind him and the boys were beside him and the masses of faces were in front of him all expecting something, wanted something, silently demanding something and all he could do was smile and touch hands. He felt that ever present ball of emotions getting bigger and he forcefully repressed it until he could run to the bathroom and vomit some of it out but it wasn’t enough, it was still there and he needed more. He couldn’t now, surrounded by people, he had to wait and he could hear his watch taunting him, loudly ticking away the seconds until he could get away from this, until he could breathe and close his eyes and let his guard down, away from the prying eyes and the _you alright, mate_?’s and he wanted to scream. He needed to see his blood, that special thing inside of himthat only he got to see, only he could control and command and the hours dragged and his foot tapped against the ground. _Finally_ , finally, finally they were at the last stop and Harry’s fingers were nervously pinging one of his bracelets against his wrist, a soft, stinging reminder that _soon._

He wasn’t careful enough. He was too rushed, not calm enough. The one person who knew him better than anyone in the world, the only person who had a chance of knowing something was wrong finally noticed. He cut too deep. Not dangerous, never dangerous, but enough that he went past the pleasant haze, the calming nothingness and became woozy. Head down, nearly touching the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, he waited for it to pass, relishing in the feeling of the raw emotions, the anger and fear and _bad_ dripping away, seeping out with the crimson liquid, staining the floor. But Louis had noticed, and this was how Louis found him.

With a noise of agony ripped from his throat, a noise that didn’t sound human, a noise that Harry wasn’t sure he could ever make, Louis dropped to his knees beside the younger boy, mixed curses and prayers falling from his lips as he tipped Harry’s head back. Sucking in deep, steadying breathes, the floating feeling being chased away by panic, Harry reassured desperately him that he was fine, he just went a little deep but he was _fine._ Louis started to cry. Harry’s voice wobbled as he continued telling him he was _fine,_ that there was nothing to worry about and he forced the lump in his throat away because he _would not cry_ and he _would not be weak_ and he would _not_ but it was in vain. He couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat and suddenly hot wet tears were burning his eyes, blazing a trail of fire down his cheeks and he stopped resisting and he slumped, caught by Louis, always caught by Louis. Together they sat, Louis crying with him, for him, beside him, enfolding him in his embrace, wrapping Harry in limbs and comfort and safety and concern. He blessedly didn’t ask questions and he didn’t pry and he didn’t speak and he didn’t give him meaningless platitudes and he didn’t lie ( _it’s gonna be alright, it’ll get better)_ he just sat with him in the perfect silence and _understood_ and it broke Harry’s heart.

For hours they sat, Lou stroking Harry’s curls as he sobbed out the exhaustion and the anger and the tiredness and the helplessness. And later when Harry’s shuddering sobs had quietened to sniffles Louis helped him up and undressed him without saying a word and without looking at the scars and the blood and just staring Harry straight in the eye, staring into his soul, seeing him, _really seeing him,_ and then put him in the shower where Harry blankly stood, staring at the wall and letting the water run over him, washing off the blood on his arm and the tears on his face and the pain in his soul and cleansed him deep within. It felt like so much more than anything, more than everything and Harry felt like weeping from happiness and relief and love but he’d run out of tears.

~

He never mentioned it, never told anyone because Harry forbid it, he begged on his knees for Louis not to tell anyone and he _hated_ asking that of him, hated the way if made Lou’s heart break, the way Harry could see he just wanted to help, just wanted to stop his pain but no one could, it wasn’t possible and so Harry was selfish and he begged Louis not to tell. And he could see the way that it broke Louis but he couldn’t allow anyone to know because _really, he was fine._ Harry could tell when he wanted to say it, when he felt like he needed to help, but mercifully he refrained. He never changed his actions towards Harry though, he never judged. He was calm and understanding but there seemed to be a fire burning deep within his ocean eyes, a burning that made Harry nervous wondering when it would explode, become a raging inferno, and whether or not he’d be burned.

He felt guilty for burdening Louis like this and he felt angry because he knew Louis was pitying him, he knew that inside he was sorry for the younger boy and Harry hated pity, he didn’t want pity and he didn’t want to seem weak and the resentment bubbled inside of him and that fed the guilt for feeling this way about his best friend, his saviour, his rock. His ocean. Before he knew it the blade was back in his hand, the cool metal slicing through skin like a hot knife through butter and the peaceful haze descended across his vision. The haze that was the same blue of the ocean. The same blue of his ocean, the blue of Louis’ eyes. Harry could breathe again.

Louis found him again. Wordlessly, he held him again. And again, they cried together on the bathroom floor, sobbing their hearts and souls to the other, the most vulnerable either ever was, but Harry felt the safest he’d ever felt. He sat in Lou’s lap, sobbing out his pain and confusion and hatred and it was healing and it was calming and _god_ he felt weak but relieved and with each tear he felt a little lighter, like he’d be able to float if only Louis held him close. But he could tell that this was only a temporary high, too soon he’d be picking up the razor and it cut him up inside, made him feel sick because Louis didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to have to comfort someone who was so fundamentally wrong that he would feel like this even while _'living the dream'_ and that made him cry harder because he had no _reasons_ for the way he felt, he just did and he couldn’t explain it and he couldn’t fix it.

But for now he just focused on the warm arms around him and the calm acceptance and forgiveness he was wrapped in and then he was reaching up, up with his face and his lips, searching, and hesitantly they met Louis’ and softly, gently, as if he was afraid, Louis kissed him back.

His haze, the calm one, the one the colour of Louis’ eyes descended again as he kissed him, lips meeting lips again and again, softly, barely touching, no words said. The tears were still falling but they were different tears now, he was relieved and happy and confused and he lost himself in it, the tiny caress of lips that made his whole body shudder and this time, when Louis undressed him and put him in the shower, Louis climbed in too, skin touching skin and lips touching lips. Harry clung to Louis, wanting to be touching as much of his skin as possible, hugging him fully and completely, not an inch of space between them and the feelings that the contact produced were so much more pure, so much simpler than before, so much more than before. It wasn’t sexual, despite the closeness of their bodies, and it wasn’t any emotion that could be felt on earth, Harry thought. It was too much, too pure for their bodies. It felt spiritual almost, it felt right and perfect and Harry's head spun with it and he kissed Louis harder. Louis kissed him as if he would break, but he held Harry as if he was holding him together. He was.

When they got out, Lou picked up the blade that was still bleeding on the ground, and with a deep, steadying breath he sliced across his own arm in one quick, clean motion. Startled, Harry jerked forward, knocking the blade out of Lou’s hand demanding what he was _thinking_ and why would he _do that_ and calling him an idiot and Louis told him through gritted teeth, hissing at the sting that “ _that’s what I feels like when I see you like this, it hurts me inside. Your pain is my pain”_ and told Harry that from now on, any cut Harry gave himself, Louis would slash his wrist too. Harry cried and begged but Louis wouldn’t change his mind and his ocean eyes were the hardest Harry had ever seen them and Harry stormed away, angry beyond belief and he felt like Louis was ruining the moment they shared, ruining the perfectness of standing under the hot, cleansing spray of the shower together. He hated it, it was absurd,Louis was so naïveand the whole situation was so disturbed ** _,_** so fucked up and he couldn’t take it anymore but the thought of Louis and Louis’ pain and the matching cut on Louis’ wrist stopped him from picking up the blade.

~

Many times, Harry slipped up. He would forget and it would become too much and even Louis’ ocean eyes couldn’t carry him away and Louis would kiss his wrist and make Harry watch as he cut across his skin too and Harry would cry and scream and beg him to stop and Louis would refuse. Once, Louis caught him before he was about to and couldn’t talk him out of it, and so together, on the count of three, they moved blade across skin. The purity and the connection of the moment moved them both to tears and they needed full skin contact even more that day and somehow, sometime between bleeding the same blood together and getting in the shower together, it did become sexual and Harry thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful as Louis was, bleeding for him.

Sometimes, Louis reminding Harry that he’d have to cut himself too would be enough to stop him. Sometimes, even looking into Louis’ eyes which said so much, said beautiful things like _I love you_ and _I’ll take you away_ and _things will change_ and _it will get better_ and none of it were lies would be enough. And slowly, slowly, day by day and hour by hour, the urge to split his skin lessened. Sometimes it was still too much but Louis was there, Louis was always there and he would kiss Harry’s scars and he would show him his own and they would put away the blade and Louis would kiss Harry all over and tell him how beautiful he was and how strong he was and when Louis was inside him, Harry would feel whole.

He would get lost, but somehow know at the same time _this is me, this is who Harry Styles is_ and then it had been a week, then two. He was sure, somewhere, deep down it was bad to be so dependant and so in love with the person who was your outlet, your person to talk to, your confidant, the only one who knew or cared but Harry couldn’t find it in him to care. It may have been fucked up but it worked for them and he may have needed Louis so much he physically hurt when he was away from him but he was pretty sure that Louis felt that way too. Their kisses were always so needy, so desperate, bruising almost when they had been separated, almost like making sure the other was still there, still real, still breathing. It may have been wrong and crazy but it kept on working and he kept on getting better and they kept on slipping more and more in love and they kept on meaning more and more to the other. Harry was pretty sure he’d never love anyone as much as he loved this man, the man that was his hero and his saviour, the man that could see him, really, _really_ see him and he could pull Harry back down to earth when he felt like it was spinning out of control and the man that could pull him back from the brink of the abyss with a single eternal glance from his eyes.

Harry knew Louis felt the same way, knew Louis for some reason saw Harry as his entire world and he couldn’t understand why, he was so damaged and broken but when Louis told him he wanted to marry him when he’d gone a year without cutting it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Harry was completely honest when he told Louis as long as he had him he could go a lifetime without harming himself and the rest went unsaid, everything that didn’t need saying the _thank you_ ’s and the _I love you_ ’s because they were said in every touch and every breath and every glance and the rest they said in actions and Harry's yes was the kiss he placed on top of Louis’ heart.

~

Every day he was surprised that Lou stayed with him, the screwed up mess that he was. And every day Lou worked to reassure Harry that he was all he wanted. On the bad days Lou would break down too because if unrequited love was the worst thing in the world the person you love not believing you when you tell them so has to be a close second. Harry would end up reassuring Lou and they would end up intertwined as close as possible, each trying to touch as much skin as possible of the other and they’d lie together and apologize and soak in the glow of loving and being loved and the promise and the hope of the future. They spoke of the _wedding_ often, small, unimportant words slipped into conversation or casual mentions of flowers or suits and it gave him a new determination and a new goal and a new reason to live. Things with the band were slowing down, they weren’t trying to break into the industry anymore and Harry felt like for once, he could handle it, he could control it; he could breathe as long as Lou was there with him every step of the way and of course, Louis was. He always would be and Harry was starting to believe that maybe he didn’t have to be strong all the time.

Those stolen gazes that were and eternity and infinity and forever condensed into forbidden seconds, green meeting blue were forbidden no more and they could look and fall and float forever. Louis’ ocean eyes were still Harry’s peace, his calming colour, his perfect escape as they would be forever. Sometimes the calm of the ocean would be replaced with burning desire and it would make Harry shiver to know how much this gorgeous boy wanted him, no matter how broken and scarred and screw up he was, he wanted him, with such an intense need that his eyes would go dark, the ocean stormy. Louis would never push, never pull, never give or take more than Harry was ready for or could handle and each time they were together in that primal, perfect way Harry healed a little more and fell in love a little bit more and believed a little bit more that yes, Lou did love him and did want him and wasn’t repulsed by the scars. Soon it was Harry starting things and Harry pouncing and Harry taking control and commanding and begging and pleading and taking and giving and he felt complete.

~

Healing was a long, slow process. The physical scars were still there but settled into faintly raised white lines long before the internal ones were gone. But every day they worked at it, reaffirming their love for each other and doing stupid, mundane, ridiculously normal things like making dinner together or having a tickle fight or curling up together on the couch and watching a show and it was these perfectly usual things that made the difference. They talked a lot, leaving no stone unturned, talking about anything and everything, nothing was taboo or forbidden or too difficult to talk about. They sang to each other, silly little love songs or songs that described them and their relationship perfectly and they never made any moves to hide their relationship because Louis was sure that forcing Harry to hide anything ever again was sick and the wrong thing to do. They never spoke of it but they never hid it and they kissed each other on the forehead and the cheek and were constantly touching each other, just to be sure they were still there. No one asked about it, not directly, like it was some sacred secret that was untouchable by mortals, like they were afraid to taint such a raw, innocent love.

~

The day that they sat the other three boys down and told them everything was one of the hardest days of Harry's life. Speaking through tears in his eyes and metal in his throat, he spilled his soul to the three men he considered brothers, and they all cried together. Sometimes he’d reach a point in his story that stuck in his throat, a steel knife that he couldn’t speak past but a squeeze from Louis’ hand and a glimpse of his eyes and a glance at the ring shining on the chain around his neck and he could breathe and speak and on he continued. Louis, his Louis who had always been there to catch him was beside him still, holding his hand, a solid, reassuring, warm weight to remind him even now, even as he was baring his soul and his heart and his story, laying emotionally naked in front of these people he loved he wasn’t alone and he never had to be alone. They all apologised, begged for forgiveness for not realising, not noticing, not helping and Harry tried to ease their pain but it settled deep inside of them and Harry could tell it would be years before they would forgive themselves. They had shadows deep in their eyes, and it broke Harry's heart to see them with stones on their shoulders and he kissed them all on the foreheads and told them he'd forgiven them and forgiven himself and they hugged him and loved him and cried.

~

Later, much later when they announced their engagement to friends and family because Harry had made it nine months without scarring his skin, absolutely no one was surprised and absolutely everyone cried. When he was with Louis he could stop trying so hard to be fine and to be normal because Louis knew everything about him, was the closest person on the planet to him and he could just breathe out and close his eyes and let Louis take control. There were days when Harry would let Louis be the one to have a rest from being strong and brave and in charge and together they looked after each other and muddled through, taking turns and learning as they went and somehow making each day perfect and normal and every time Louis tried to make breakfast for him, or attempted to clean, or kissed Harry absentmindedly, just because he could, Harry fell a little bit harder.

~

Standing in a white three piece, he wasn’t nervous at all. He was absolutely, positively filled up with the knowledge that Louis loved him unconditionally, loved him despite knowing everything or maybe even because of it.  Harry’s love for Louis filled him, his emotions in a tight ball inside his chest and it had to escape somehow and when Harry’s mum entered the room, tear tracks already on her face he turned to her and _laughed_ , the pure joy and exhilaration bursting out of him. She smiled wetly at him and fussed over his lapels and pinned the single red rose to his breast pocket, the red flower surrounded by lilac because Louis was Harry’s first love and iris because Harry was Louis’ inspiration. His mum told him she was going to go sit down and she would see him soon, Mr Tomlinson-Styles and kissed him on the forehead telling him she was so proud and so happy and he was so strong and she couldn’t think of anyone who deserved this happiness more. With another teary kiss pressed to his forehead she left and Harry was left alone with his thoughts and love and the flowers on his suit. He took a deep breath that wavered slightly because he was _so_ ready to be Mr. Louis Tomlinson and he wanted Louis to be Mr. Harry Styles already and he couldn’t wait. He bounced with excitement and when he left the small room he was in and first set eyes on Louis, also dressed in white, he stopped breathing because Louis was a vision and Harry’s breath was taken away. He was stunning and Harry was half afraid he’d somehow dreamed this amazing man up but then Louis pulled him close smelling like Louis and feeling like Louis and solid and real and warm and perfect. Louis kissed him for the last time as unmarried men and then together, hand in hand they turned and began to walk down the short aisle, surrounded on every side by friends and family and people who loved them and there were smiles and happy tears and the love exuded was almost tangible and Harry felt as if he were floating.

Then they were at the front with Liam and Niall and Zayn beside them and as the celebrant began Zayn was the first to cry, no matter how much he would deny it later but Niall and Liam weren’t long after. They were happy tears, they’d already cried all the regret and the pity and the apologies and this day was to celebrate, to enjoy.

When the celebrant pronounced them married, really, truly, legally married he pounced on Louis with a ferocity and kissed him with all the passion in his body, pouring everything he had into kissing his husband and he could hear the crowd laughing and sobbing and cat-calling and he smiled into the kiss, teeth clanging together as Louis grinned too and they raised their arms victorious and walked back down the aisle to their new life together. He’d dreamed of this day for so long because even heroes have the right to dreamso surely that meant he did too and it was everything he could’ve hoped for and everything he wanted and it meant Louis was his, quantifiably, fully, legally _his_ and nothing could take that away from him, not ever.

At their wedding, Louis’ vow had told him that _you are my hero. You’re so strong, look what you’ve overcome. I love you, all of you; the bad parts, the good parts, the scars, the bad habits, the insecurities and the fears and the bad jokes and you. I love you so much, you inspire me every day to be a better person_ and Harry let everything go and all the past and the pain and focused on loving this beautiful human being in front of him and loving life and loving himself.

~

Later, Harry would tell everyone that _it gets better_. He was with the love of his life, his hero, and he was telling people his story and he could tell they were affected by it by the tears streaming down their faces and his words resonated in their hearts and they were seeing him as their hero and they could see him, really see him. They saw him as more than a pop star and as more than a spokesperson for LBGTQ rights and more than a person to pity but as _him_ , Harry Styles who had struggled and who had won.

He wished he could go back and tell his younger self all that he knew now and that _yes, it actually does get better, it really, really does, it gets so much better and never to give up hope because one day in the future you’ll wake up and realise you haven’t self-harmed or felt the need to in so long and yes, it will be hard, and yes, you need to work at it every day and he couldn’t have done it by himself but he did it, he beat it and now he’s happier than he’s ever been._

He tells them all that _you will cry and you will curse and you will beg and plead and be angry, so, so angry but in the end you’re alive, you’re more alive than any blade could ever make you feel, more free and happy than any cheap high could ever make you and you can live, really live and then you’ll be the one standing in front of hurting children and teenagers and adults and your younger self and tell them that yes, it does get better and I know, no matter how dark and impossible and bleak it seems now, it will get better. You will get better._

 


End file.
